The Truth About Love (25 page)

Exercising a painter’s sleight of hand, he altered the perspective so that in the sketch she appeared to be standing within the entrance, framed by it.

The afternoon light was perfect, illuminating the entrance yet leaving all beyond it in shadow. In the portrait, the scene would be lit by moonlight—the hardest of all lights to use—but today’s clarity gave him all the lines he would need, sharply delineating every vine leaf, every twisting, trailing shoot.

Once he had her outline set within the frame, he waved her to a seat nearby. “I’m working on background. I have all I need of you for the present—you can rest.”

Jerked from her less-than-heartening reverie, Jacqueline inwardly raised her brows. From his tone, definitely his painter’s voice, it sounded more as if she was in his way. Not that she minded; she’d been standing for most of the day. Crossing to the wrought-iron seat set before a thickly planted border, she sank onto it. Leaning on the arm, she looked at him.

She expected her mind to return to wondering how Millicent was coping in the drawing room, and what the attitude of the visiting ladies was. She was very much afraid she knew; they’d assume she was guilty of Thomas’s murder, too. The idea hurt almost as much as her realization, when she’d emerged from deep mourning, that they thought she’d killed her mother.

Such matters certainly intruded, but with her eyes on Gerrard, they failed to capture her mind. Instead, she thought of him—not just of last night, and the pleasure he’d introduced her to, not just of his clear expectation that she would succumb to feminine fluster over it, and might regret it, not of the fact that she hadn’t, and didn’t, but of him. Just him.

The concentration in his face, in his stance, the sense of immense energy he focused on his work, was enthralling. Watching him wield it for her, in the creation of the portrait that by his own words he saw as freeing her from her strange prison, moved her and held her attention completely.

It was, in a way, like watching her champion battle in the lists for her; like any such lady, she couldn’t look away.

Eventually, he looked down, and considered his sketches. The fervor that had held him faded; she sensed he was content with what he’d achieved.

She was tempted, but having been warned, she didn’t ask to see what he’d done.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, he looked at her. He seemed to consider, then he scooped up his spare pencils, tucked them in a pocket, and strolled across to the seat.

He sat beside her; he met her eyes, then looked down and opened his sketch pad. “I want you to see the concept I’m working on.”

Astonished, she shifted to stare at him. “I thought you never, ever, showed your preliminary work to anyone?”

His lips thinned, but his voice remained even, if a trifle irritated. “Normally, I don’t, but in your case, you have a sufficiently artistic eye to understand, to see what I see, what I’m trying to capture.”

She studied his profile, then shifted closer and looked at the sketch pad. “So what are you trying to capture—”

She broke off as he showed her. The first sheet contained a sketch in barest outline—her, her body, poised within the entrance to the Garden of Night. The next contained details of the entrance; those following filled in various sections of the arched entry, and then came a set defining various elements and aspects.

It was apparent why he so rarely showed such preliminary work; she appreciated his trusting her to be able to interpret it, to fuse all the sketches to get some idea of the final work.

“Me escaping the Garden of Night.” Just saying the words, she felt the concept’s power. She looked at the entrance, gilded by the late afternoon sun, but with sultry, shadowy, oppressive gloom lurking behind it.

Watching her face, Gerrard saw that she’d seen and grasped his vision, that she understood. He’d broken his absolute, until-now-invariable rule because he’d wanted her to know that the portrait truly would be powerful enough to shatter all preconceived notions of her guilt, that it would speak of her innocence strongly enough to make people rethink, and revisit, their assumptions. Ultimately, that it would be powerful enough to evoke the specter of the real killer.

Her knowing that, believing that, would be important in making the whole work, in bringing life to the portrait that he was beyond convinced would be his greatest yet.

He hadn’t wanted her opinion, but her approval, and her support.

The thought was almost shocking; he bundled it out of his mind as she looked at him.

“You haven’t yet sketched me in the entrance itself. I’m willing to pose there”—she glanced down at his sketches—“for this.”

He shook his head. “I don’t need you to do that—I’ll pose you in the studio. I want the scene lit by moonlight, and while I’ve done enough landscapes to know how to manage that for the setting, people are harder. I’ll need to work in candlelight, and convert that to moonlight.” He caught her gaze. “Your pose will be difficult as it is—indoors will be bad enough.”

She looked into his eyes, then pulled a face. “Thank you for the warning.” She glanced toward the Garden of Night. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

They both turned as footsteps sounded, swinging down through the Garden of Vesta.

“Barnaby.” Gerrard closed his sketchbook.

“I wonder if he’s been up to the house?”

Barnaby emerged from the path and saw them. He grinned and ambled over. “Richards said he thought you were here. I decided, after the exigencies of my morning, that I shouldn’t place any further strain on my temper—according to Richards there’s a platoon of local ladies in the drawing room.”

Subsiding onto the grass before the seat, Barnaby heaved a long sigh, then stretched out, folding his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.

Gerrard grinned; he prodded Barnaby with his boot. “So report—what did you learn in St. Just?”

Barnaby’s features set; it was instantly apparent whatever he’d discovered hadn’t made him happy. “It’s nonsensical. Well, no, I can—just possibly—understand that people do leap to conclusions based on precious little fact, and the only widely known fact regarding Thomas’s disappearance and now death is that the last person to have seen him, and what’s more, to have been in the gardens with him, is Jacqueline.”

Opening his eyes, Barnaby looked at her. “If I hadn’t experienced it myself, I wouldn’t have believed how widespread, or indeed how entrenched, suspicion against you is. As it was, I had to be careful what I said—how much I let out and, most importantly, how I reacted to—” Clearly frustrated, he gestured with both hands. “ ‘Established fact’!”

Looking at Jacqueline, Barnaby assayed a grin. “I assure you, I deserve a medal for discretion.” He glanced at Gerrard, met his eyes. “But it was distressing, and rather unnerving.”

Gerrard frowned. Barnaby didn’t use words like “distressing” and “unnerving” without cause. Indeed, very little unnerved Barnaby.

Lying back, eyes closed, Barnaby refolded his arms, frowning, too. Eventually, Gerrard asked, “What are you thinking?” It was patently obvious something portentous was brewing in Barnaby’s brain.

Barnaby sighed. “I honestly think we have to act now—not leave everything until later, until the portrait’s finished and we can use it to open people’s eyes.” Opening his own, he looked up at them both. “The portrait’s critical to making people rethink their views of your mother’s murder, but Thomas…” His gaze rested on Jacqueline. “That’s another case, and we can’t let them hang the blame on you without cause. If we let it go, let them think what they are without challenging it
now,
then we’re going to face a much harder battle to make them open their minds later.”

Barnaby looked at Gerrard. “I think we need to speak to Tregonning—lay before him the clear evidence Jacqueline was in no way involved in Thomas’s murder, and also the facts demonstrating she’s innocent of her mother’s murder, too.”

Jacqueline drew a not entirely steady breath. “Why do we need to convince Papa?”

Barnaby met her gaze. “Because we need to present a united front, first to last, and when it comes to the local gentry, his attitude is the most crucial. Millicent’s, Gerrard’s, and my opinions are all very well, but if your father doesn’t support you, well, you can see how hard it’s going to be.”

Abruptly, Barnaby lay back and shook his fists at the sky. “And it shouldn’t be hard because you’re
not guilty
!”

He glanced at them both. “Sorry, but I really think we need to recruit Lord Tregonning.”

B
arnaby was right. If they allowed the discovery of Thomas’s body and the consequent speculation to be used to establish Jacqueline as a disturbed double murderess, then their task of opening all eyes with the portrait would be immeasurably more difficult.

They discussed speaking with Lord Tregonning. Jacqueline vacillated.

“Papa was devastated by my mother’s death.” She glanced at Gerrard. “It’s the pain, the opening up of the wound, that makes him shy away from considering
how
she died. On top of that, he more than anyone is afraid that if he looks too closely, he’ll see that it was me.”

“That’s just it,” Barnaby insisted. “The current situation isn’t about your mother’s death, but Thomas’s.”

Gerrard reached out, took Jacqueline’s hand, captured her gaze when she looked at him. “Barnaby’s right—we should approach your father now, when the principal focus is Thomas’s murder. However”—with one finger he stroked the back of her hand—“I think you’re underestimating your father—he’s already moved to address the question of your mother’s death. He went to considerable lengths to persuade me to paint your portrait.”

He watched her digest that. Eventually, after another glance at Barnaby—who responded with an encouraging, puppy-eager look, making her smile—she looked back at him, and nodded. “Very well. We’ll beard Papa.”

They bearded Millicent first; when they returned to the house, they found her slumped on the chaise in the drawing room. She jerked to life when they entered, but when she saw who it was, she fell back once more.

“My dear heaven, I’ve never met such gossipmongers in my life!” She paused, then added, “Of course, that did make it easier to learn their thoughts and raise the questions we want them to consider. I didn’t have to introduce the subject of the body—that was what they’d come to talk about.”

“How successful were you,” Barnaby asked, “in making them wonder who killed Thomas?”

Millicent frowned. “My success varied, I’m sorry to say, but oddly enough it was Marjorie Elcott who grasped the facts most definitely, which is extremely fortunate as she’s the biggest gossip in the neighborhood.”

“Who else called?” Gerrard asked.

Millicent rattled off a list of names, which included all those local ladies he and Barnaby had met.

“Mrs. Myles and Maria Fritham didn’t seem able to absorb the point that if Thomas couldn’t have been killed by a woman, then Jacqueline obviously wasn’t his killer. Mrs. Hancock and Miss Curtis were more attentive, as was Lady Trewarren, although I fear her ladyship ended simply confused. Others, too, seemed to lose all interest immediately one started talking of
facts
.” Millicent grimaced. “Still, it was better than them thinking
I
credited the speculation so many of them seem to have swallowed whole.”

Sinking onto the chaise beside Millicent, Jacqueline touched her arm. “Thank you, Aunt.”

Millicent humphed and patted Jacqueline’s hand. “I only wish there was more we could do. It was distressing to see how widespread—and deeply rooted—this belief in your guilt is, my dear. Most worrying.” She glanced at Barnaby, whom she’d unknowingly echoed. “I do wonder, you know, if someone—some specific someone—hasn’t been intentionally spreading whispers. Not just recently, but over time. I asked a few of the ladies
why
they thought as they did—I got the same response every time: a blank look, and, ‘But everyone knows…’”

Barnaby grimaced. “That’s a difficult belief to challenge.”

“Especially when they delicately refrain from elucidating precisely
what
everyone knows!”

“Indeed.” Gerrard sat in the armchair facing the chaise. “That’s why we’ve concluded we need to start a more definite campaign now, rather than wait until the portrait is complete.”

Concisely, with a few interjections from Barnaby, he outlined their new tack.

“I agree,” Jacqueline said. “As Mr. Debbington pointed out, Papa has already made an effort to address the question of Mama’s death by commissioning my portrait.”

Millicent nodded. “That’s true.” She looked at Gerrard. “As I mentioned, I haven’t spent much of my life here. Consequently, I don’t know Marcus that well. However, I do know he loved Miribelle, not just deeply but as if she were his sun, moon and stars. She was everything to him, but he also loves Jacqueline. Whoever is behind this—not just the two murders but the casting of Jacqueline as scapegoat—has placed my brother in a dreadful position, one I’m sure has been tearing him apart. Suspecting Jacqueline of killing Miribelle…” Millicent paused, then gruffly huffed. “Indeed, poor Marcus has been a living and, it seems, quite deliberate victim of this killer, too.”